Nakama
by Emma CS Me
Summary: There's something fitting about who has wound up on that bus. Cassidy's thoughts before he presses 'send'.


**NAKAMA**

There's something oddly fitting about who has ended up on that bus, and the giggle in his throat slightly calms the turning in his stomach. It's a joke, a prank; _I'm going to kill you all! Hee Hee Haw Haw!_

He is sweating. No-one seems to notice that, but then again, isn't that why he's doing it? So no-one will notice him? Shut off all treacherous voices; each and every hint of reality that blisters his skin. It's sick. He thinks of where they will go; he doesn't believe in heaven. Or hell, which is good for him. He swallows and saliva goes down, forming a vicious web in his stomach; lies and history and everything that can eat at you in the dark.

He thinks of Meg; blinding brilliant white pure Meg hurts his eyes so bad he screams silently. Her pain burns as a slow fuse; he's beyond seeing it, he _feels_ it – it radiates, infecting his skin, flesh, bones, central nervous system. She thinks she can hide. No one ever sees Meg; prays and dreams that don't mean a thing. She boils him; she's searing, she's on fire. She's counting down to a supernova and he won't be able to see that, can't cope if he has to see that. He doesn't want to see Meg Manning exploding; residue of her pain landing on everyone that surrounds her. Meg probably doesn't want that either, but she wouldn't thank him for this. She shouldn't.

Meg, in the end, is unimportant. She is important because she in unimportant; kind words and pleasantries, unreality infecting every one of her moves, his moves. He's probably projecting. He never knew Meg Manning and he doesn't particularly care to; he's sure, underneath, she's filthy, disgusting. It's easy for the rest of the world to believe in sweet; to see God in their spines. Meg is everything that never saved him, and now, it is good she will not be saved.

The bus turns around a corner; turn around all fate and decision change _everything_. The limo follows, he gulped, the crowd guffaws at things unknown. Not that it matters. Not that any of it matters, not that truth is truth and lies are lies, something crazy like that. The truth is a mask; there's no meaning to anything. If people could understand that; if Peter and Marcos knew to unmake their deaths – this wouldn't be happening. The oxygen buzzes with knowledge of denial, but it doesn't matter now. It never has.

He feels small again; it is stupid, he has the power now, for the second time. He should feel strong again. His pulse races. Dick is laughing; flippant bastard with no idea how he lives with a cadaver. Cassidy taps his fingers on his phone; do anything phones include mass murder. He's spreading, spilling, marking the atmosphere. And he is smart enough to be invisible.

Duncan makes sarcastic, amused comments at Dick. Poor, poor, Duncan. Sister, girlfriend, other girlfriend; blood gets everywhere, pulling out each molecule of his soul. Smart Duncan, keep smiling, keep smart, run away to Cuba when you can't – stay invisible, that Duncan Lilly loved. Stay the fool, Duncan, be the fool the whole world used to be – don't you understand that deer-in-the-headlights look of mine. There's a good boy.

_Veronica_, he bristles and bites his bottom lip. Veronica fizzled, smothered, investigative mind that crawls with maggots, buried underneath the ocean tide; buried underneath her lack of memory. His pulse races and he judges; judges her and how she won't stay dead. If it looks like a corpse, talks like a corpse, walks like a corpse, he made it a corpse. _It's just an object, it doesn't mean what you think; _he says, unreal again. He winces when he sees her; car crash in slow motion; horrifying, thrilling. She can ask questions and have the wrong answers; he has enough power to lie. It's always been easier to lie to eyeballs melted in their sockets.

She's just an object. She doesn't mean what you think.

The zombies are getting closer to the edge; zombies that _don't_ talk like corpses. That don't understand. That want to open mouths wide and talk talk talk talk talk like human beings; who lock themselves into reality, and Cassidy with them. He won't be part of their world.

The heat floods through the limo, burning his clothing. For a second he's terrified; is he, yet again, visible? Will they care, what they see? He's getting paler now; bleached by sun and earth, markings like the stain of chemical on denim. Another favor owed by someone not him; it feels fitting to end that. Cervando is just a symbol, and when he rolls in his grave? Beaver will still exist. Beaver, pathetic weak object (take it if you want, we offer it to you) held against the wall. Always told to work, to carry Dick; corpse carrying humanity as tortoise carries planet. No more, says the twitch of thin fingers; no longer a good little worker; Beaver's blood stains those jeans, blue to white to red. Liberté, egalité, fraternité – Dick is dropped abruptly and bruised. Good.

The cliff-face is closer now, Beaver is breathing heavy. She draws his eyes to the girl, she who represents all pain. She doesn't look like him, doesn't look evil. He didn't either, but that's not the point. Dick is laughing with her, wearing the lecherous grin Cassidy's seen so many times (he barely controls the acid in his esophagus then, but he manages it. Stay invisible). Looking at her, he doesn't see an answer; he doesn't see _it._ She is small, fragile; a breakable twig under an unknown foot. She's small like the passed out girl with long blond hair; the tiny boy in his new little league uniform. She shouldn't be here. She should be on that bus, it would be right.

Dick's flirting drives his mind back to his ensemble; the puppets for which he plays God. Betina. Oh, that will be funny – to see Dick react to that. He won't care, for Dick cares about nothing – certainly never about her. Dick is better at this, this way the world is meant to be – matching, fighting flames that cause each other pain, and move on without a second thought. Dick belongs in the world. Beaver's never quite understood that; how, even after he pulls that knife out of him (and the blood pours free, not that anyone sees) and drives it into the sleeping beauty, he vomits with disgust. He won't have to feel that, he shouldn't have to feel that – just hurt everyone and move on. No more extinguishing the burn with water choked in bile.

The summer heat is sweltering now; his companions far, far too loud. Giggles of laughter; pinpricks at his eardrums that are making him bleed. This is what's necessary now. What's done is done, and what's not done is in some circumstances too. It's all their fault. Those who didn't know how to be undead, those dragging him back into sunlight and making his skin hiss and fizzle. Closer now. Counting down to his supernova.

He doesn't know the last one; pretty white trash who loves her phone. That's all he knows – he's taking her away from _someone_; she will have friends and family who will cry for her. Cassidy cannot reason himself with her life because, in his mind, she has no life, no name. This makes her the perfect barometer, the line of whether or not he can do this. He can. The good thing is, he will kill her and that will be all she ever is to him – he doesn't _care_ he doesn't know her. Shocking explosion lands on everyone; his intestines, blood, muscle turning the world to ash.

The world slows down as they approach the cliff. He quells the nausea in his stomach with the sound of Gia and Dick laughing; turning pain to fury. It's not fair.

He presses send, starts the apocalypse. Dick is laughing, laughing, laughing as they forever plunge down.


End file.
